


Reverb (Three Toasters, One Dead Body, and Ellen Tigh Walk into a Bar Remix)

by Karen T (poohmusings)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, Gen, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-01
Updated: 2008-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poohmusings/pseuds/Karen%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone hit the light 'cause there's more here to be seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverb (Three Toasters, One Dead Body, and Ellen Tigh Walk into a Bar Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beatrice Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Beatrice+Otter).
  * Inspired by ["Four Times Saul Tigh needed a drink (and one time he didn't)"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/27113) by Beatrice Otter. 



> **Disclaimer:** Not mine, any of them.  
>  **Spoilers:** "Crossroads, Part 2"  
>  **Notes:** Written for [Beatrice Otter](http://beatrice-otter.livejournal.com) for [Remix Redux VI](http://community.livejournal.com/%20remix_redux08). Beatrice's ["Four Times Saul Tigh needed a drink (and one time he didn't)"](http://beatrice-otter.livejournal.com/45500.html) gave such great back story to Saul Tigh that I couldn't resist taking the pieces and twisting them in a ... twisted way. :) This was written before Season 4 began airing, so if anything's been 'Jossed', that's why. Summary is from "An End Has a Start" by The Editors. Much thanks to Julie and Michelle for their help. They deserve hazard pay for how I keep springing last-minute beta requests on them.

It's cold. So cold. If only he could warm his hands.

"Here, kid." 

Saul looks up at the sound of the gruff voice to see Chief Kairos holding out a flask. The sun he can't feel glints off its silver body, momentarily blinding him. 

"Cure for what ails you," the man says. 

Yes, a cure. He deserves a cure. He's earned one. He snatches the flask and clasps it to his chest. 

"You've earned it," the Chief continues, his words an eerie replica of the ones churning through Saul's mind. "It was hell we went through today, kid." 

Yes, yes. Saul repeats the word to himself as he greedily gulps down the Chief's ambrosia, the liquid burning a path over his tongue and down his throat. Hell. It was all hell. 

He doesn't want to remember, but memories of the Cylon attack race through his mind. 

The smoke stinging his eyes. The smell -- no, the _stink_ \-- hanging heavy in the stagnant air, clogging his nostrils. And Dunk. Good ol' Deckhand Dunk. Lying on the grimy portside bay deck. Torn to pieces by those frakking toasters. Guts strewn across the floor. Blood everywhere. 

Blood. 

Red blood. 

Warm blood. 

On his hands. 

Warming his hands. 

Saul's mouth falls open as he holds his hands, palms up, before him. They're covered in blood. 

"What the frak?" He peddles backwards, a feeble attempt to escape from his own confusion. "What frakking joke is this? This can't--" 

Before he can finish his sentence, his left foot catches on a solid object and he's falling, sliding, coming to a rest with his legs stretched out across Dunk's butchered body. 

"Oh, gods." Saul scrambles to disentangle his limbs from Dunk's innards, but only succeeds in further covering himself in his friend's blood. 

"You killed him," Chief Kairos accuses, looming over him, right hand fisted in attack. 

"No," Saul cries, shaking his head. 

"Murderer." 

"No, I don't know what's--" 

"Traitor." 

"No. I was just cold!" 

"Toaster!" 

"No!" 

"Were you frakking _humming_ , Adrastos?!" 

"No, stop--" Saul's put up his own fists against the Chief's incoming blows, but he now drops his arms. Adrastos? No one's ever called him Adrastos except his-- 

"It's okay, Adrastos," Castor cuts in, his voice no longer filled with annoyance. "I know it was you humming over the wireless -- it's a CAG's job to know these things. But I'm not gonna bust your balls over it. Gave you and the other rooks a way to release some tension. Just don't do it again." 

"Humming, uh," Saul sneaks a peek at his hands -- his completely blood-free hands -- and frowns, "thing?" 

"Yeah," Castor says. "Humming. I knew it was you because I've heard you sing in the showers and the wireless doesn't distort it _that_ much." He hums a few notes. "Sound familiar?" 

"Not--" he begins to say instinctually, but then Dunk's blood-streaked head turns toward him. 

"Why'd you have to kill me, kid?" Dunk asks. 

Saul blanches and swallows back bile. "--really," he manages to finish meekly. 

Castor's brows furrow. "Hey, you okay? You don't look so hot. And what are you doing sitting on the ground, anyway?" 

He offers a hand up, which Saul gratefully accepts. Anything to get away from Dunk. Whose mournful eyes keep following him. 

"I need a drink," Saul says once he's back on his feet. 

"Cure for what ails you!" Chief Kairos chirps as he thrusts the ambrosia-filled flask back into his hands. 

"Well, after doing good in your first flight, you've earned it," the CAG says, clapping him on the shoulder. 

"Yes," Saul sighs, relenting to the alcohol's warmth. He would focus on the warmth rather than the dead body littering the floor or the two people from his past. 

"What about me? You're not going to buy a girl a drink?" 

He smiles into the rim of the flask as Ellen's weight drapes across his right shoulder, one of her slender fingers tracing the side of his face. 

"For you, baby, anything," he slurs, leaning into her touch. "I've miss you." 

"I know," she whispers into his ear, the warmth of her breath sending shivers through him. "But I'm here now." 

"I-- I'm sorry I killed you, Ellen. I thought I was doing the right thing." 

He senses every muscle in her body tense and her weight begins to slip away. "Maybe you should just get me that drink, Saul," she says, her voice tight. 

"And me? Will you get me a drink, too?" 

Another wavy-haired blonde appears by his other shoulder. Unlike Ellen, she faces him, her back pressed against the edge of the bar he doesn't remember taking a seat at. Her form-fitting red dress is cut low and she flashes even more of her cleavage when she reaches over him to pry the flask from his grip. 

"I know you," Saul murmurs. Six. That's what they call her. He's sure of it. "I ... Have I been expecting you?" 

"That's right," Six says, her crimson lips stretching into an appreciative smile. "Sorry I'm a little late, but I've been busy. Elsewhere." 

"Saul?" Ellen's voice trills in his ear. "Have you forgotten about me?" 

"N-no. I-- Bartender, can I get--" 

The bartender spins around and pushes two drinks across the bar. "I've got you covered, Friend. A Frak-in-the-Meadow for the lady, and an ambrosia, straight, double shot for the gentleman." 

As the bartender grins at him, Saul's breath catches in his throat. With his thinning gray hair, cloying smile, and oily voice, Saul would recognize him anywhere. "Get the frak away from my wife," he growls, shoving the full shot glass back across the bar. It tips over and its green contents slosh across the bar top, rolling to the edge of the wood. 

Saul thinks he can hear every drop echo in his head as it hits the floor. 

_Splop. Splop._

_Blood. Blood._

"Now, now," the bartender says, his hands held up in apology. "It wasn't personal, what happened with your wife. Well, I guess it kind of was," he corrects himself with a laugh, "but you know how it--" 

He's interrupted by the sound of Six clearing her throat. "Ah, right." He shakes his head and shrugs ruefully. "It doesn't matter. The point is, Saul, I _am_ your friend." 

"Like hell you are." 

The bartender -- What the frak had he called himself when he infiltrated Galactica to mess with Tyrol's mind? Cable? Cravell? Cavil? Yes, Cavil. -- doesn't attempt to hide his smirk. "And who do you think _are_ your friends, Saul? Think the president's not going to toss you out an airlock the minute she discovers you're a Cylon? Or do you believe you're immune to everyone's wrath because your _precious_ Bill Adama will save you?" 

"You leave him out of this," Saul hisses. 

Six, now seated on the bar with her legs crossed, leans back to look at Cavil. "I think it's time we told him about Adama." 

"I don't know. I'm not sure he's ready." 

"What--" Saul takes a second to consider whether he really wants to hear what they have to tell him. They're toasters, liars. He should fight them, kill them with his bare hands for the people -- his _friends_ \-- they've killed. And yet ... "What about Bill?" he hears himself ask. 

"Let's just say he might not be all that upset when he finds out you're a Cylon." 

"Why do you-- I don't ..." 

"Oh, come _on_ ," Cavil snaps. "Do we have to spell everything out for you? He's a Cylon. Yes, that's right. The upstanding Admiral Adama is a Cylon. The last one. The _special_ one. That clear enough for you?" 

"There's no need to be rude," Six chastises Cavil, but he dismisses her with an impatient wave of his hand. 

Dropping off the bar, she moves to Saul's side, gently touches his arm. "We're not trying to trick you. We have no reason to." 

"But why ... ?" Saul closes his eye, conjuring up a mental picture of Bill, then superimposing it with that of a toaster. Blue eyes becoming red. Red blood. Blood warm. 

"You know it's true, don't you? You sense it." 

"No, it can't be." Saul shakes his head and purses his lips together. He won't do this to Bill. 

"Think about it," Six purrs in his ear. "Who's always been there for you? Providing excuses? Covering up your mistakes? Through all the binges and fights, he's always had your back. And you've always wondered why, too. Now you know. God put each of us here for a reason. Each of us has a role to play." 

"No." He continues shaking his head. "I'm not listening to this. You're trying to trick me. This isn't happening. I--" 

"Think about it," Six repeats, her fingernails digging into his arm. 

"No," he whispers, his voice thin and tremulous. 

"You're not a murderer; you're a friend. You're not a terrorist; you're a soldier. You're filling an important position of need. You know this. You've _always_ known this." 

_Each of us has a role to play._

The determined shake of his head begins to morph into a nod. Slow at first, then gradually picking up speed as Six's words seep into him, into his core. 

"My role is to be by Bill's side," he says, a sense of giddiness filling him. "To support him like he's supported me." 

"Yes." Six steps back and beams. 

"He's going to need my help. He's _expecting_ my help. I'll be there." 

"Yes, baby. Yes, you will." Ellen wraps her arms around his neck, her cheek pressed against his. "Bill's lucky to have you." 

"Each of us has a role and I'm going to play mine." 

"Yes, you are." She nuzzles his neck as her hands slip down the front of his tanks. 

"And all I've been doing is playing my role," he insists, his mind and heart racing. "Everything I've done, it's been for a reason. Like when I killed you, Ellen. It wasn't because I wanted to but because I _had_ to. There was a purpose. You know that, right?" 

"Oh, honey, of course I do." 

"Because each of us has a role." 

"Atta boy. Drinks on the house!" As cheers erupt from around the bar, Cavil winks and toasts him with a raised glass. "Cure for what ails you, Saul. You've earned it." 

"We're going home!" comes a chorus of voices from the far end of the bar. 

Saul turns and recognizes members of his first Viper crew, the crew that helped him survive the first Cylon war. He never felt entirely comfortable with them then, but he does now. "Home!" he shouts, joining their joyous celebration. 

He's lightheaded and wonders whether the bar should be teetering like a seesaw, but that's all inconsequential because he has Ellen, and he has meaning, and he's so, so warm. 

"Home!" he says again, laughing and laughing and laugh-- 

"Good dream?" 

Reclined in a leather armchair, Bill gazes at him over the top of his glasses, his lips quirked upwards. A quick scan of the room informs Saul that the bar's gone; Ellen's gone; the toasters are gone. "I ... was dreaming?" 

"Mm-hmm." Bill rummages through a stack of papers in his lap before settling on one to study. "You know, Saul, if you find my stories boring, you can just tell me so instead of falling asleep in the middle of one of them." 

"I fell asleep on you?" Saul's hands are clammy and panic creeps its way up from his belly. He doesn't remember falling asleep. He doesn't remember listening to Bill tell a story. Hell, he doesn't even remember going into Bill's quarters! 

But before his confusion and fear strangle him, he's distracted by the sound of a muffled choke, followed by an unmistakable chuckle. Bill is laughing. So hard, in fact, he has to remove his glasses to wipe away the tears coming from his eyes. 

"You should take a look at yourself," Bill eventually says. "You're as white as a sheet. Did you really think I cared you fell asleep? My ego isn't that delicate, thank you." 

Saul lets loose a lone, self-conscious chuckle. "I ... I know. I was only ... " 

_Playing your role._

His head snaps to the right, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the voice. He knows that voice. _Six._

"Saul?" Bill's replaced his glasses and is regarding him with concern. "You okay?" 

"Ye-yeah." Saul forces out another chuckle and scrubs his face with his hands to hide it from Bill's view. "It's just ... My dream was weird. Full of people from my past, and I ... I think I need a drink." 

That last admission slips off his tongue before Saul's able to stop himself. Tensing, he expects an aggrieved sigh -- or worse -- from Bill. 

But all his old friend does is gesture towards the tumblers and decanter of ambrosia sitting on the table between them. "Please," he offers. "You've earned it." 

_-the end-_


End file.
